


Couch Potatoes

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-05
Updated: 2007-04-05
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:58:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Pre-series. Dad's gone and Sam's sprained his wrist. Cue Nintendo, massages, and various other fun things.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Couch Potatoes  
Rating: Adult  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Summary: Pre-series. Dad's gone and Sam's sprained his wrist. Cue Nintendo, massages, and various other fun things.  
Disclaimer: If it's illegal where you are, go away.  
  
  
  
Sam is fifteen and a half and his legs are too long, his arms too bony, his hair too foofy. Dean takes great delight in shoving Sam around, whacking him until Sam fights back. Hey, what else are big brothers for?  
  
But then Sam falls down some stairs on a hunt, not out of choice but because some bitch of a ghost pushes him; and now instead of small quickly-fading bruises he has a black eye and a broken wrist and a seriously pissy attitude.  
  
“Just eat the soup, Sammy,” Dean says, trying and failing to keep the irritation out of his voice.  
  
“I’ve got a busted wrist, not the flu.” A pair of socks manages to whack Dean in the forehead. “And it’s _Sam._ ”  
  
They’ve been fighting that particular battle for more than a year now, and it amuses Dean to no end how pissed Sammy gets when Dean treats him like a kid. He grins. “Okay, then…Samantha.”  
  
“ _Dean!_ ” Sam howls, and if Dad was here then this would be his cue to threaten to beat the living daylights out of one or both of them; but Dad’s gone hunting, won’t be back for at least a day, so Dean just cackles with glee.  
  
“Have fun playing Super Mario one-handed, Spammy,” he says, and goes into his room.  
  
One, two, three, and!  
  
“Dean?”  
  
He cranks up the radio (REO, what the fuck is _wrong_ with the world?) just loud enough to give him an excuse to ignore Sam, but not so loud that he won’t be able to hear the inevitable  
  
“Deeeaaaan!”  
  
—whine.   
  
“ _Deeeeeaaan!_ ”  
  
He grins up at the KISS poster plastered to his ceiling.  
  
“Dean, if you don’t get out here, I’ll make copies of that picture of you with Sandy Jameson’s thong on and show ‘em to every girl in my school.”  
  
Sam grins triumphantly when Dean appears. “I’ll do the arrows,” he says, holding the controller up.  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, and sits down. He grabs the other half of the remote, placing his fingers over the small purple buttons. “How far’d you get?”  
  
“Stuck in the ghost house,” Sam says, his face scrunched up. ”I keep sinking an’ getting killed.”  
  
Dean looks at him: floppy brown hair, hilariously grouchy look, bony arm contrasting sharply with the deep tan brace.  
  
It’s been almost a year now since the urge to tilt his head and kiss the bitchy little frown off Sam’s face first started showing up in Dean’s dreams. Almost a year since he jerked himself off in the shower, thinking about the way Sam threw his head back and laughed right before shooting the werewolf. It hasn’t stopped and it hasn’t gotten better; times like these, with Dad gone and them half-remembering how to be normal, just make it worse.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
Dean blinks and realizes that his staring has been noticed; Sam’s looking at him head-on now, nose wrinkled. “I got somethin’ on my face, man?”  
  
“Nah.” Dean forces himself to grin. “Let’s kill these sons of bitches.”  
  
So they do. It’s not easy, playing half a game, but they’ve been doing this for years; Sam moves forwards and backwards and Dean jumps. They’ve navigated all of World Seven in a little more than an hour, and now they’re going through Bowser’s castle.  
  
“No, dude, Door Seven has that weird sun lookin’ thing. We always die in there.”  
  
“Bullshit!” Sam jostles Dean with his shoulder. Dean grimaces and twists in his seat, adjusting himself for what feels like the millionth time that day. “Door Seven has the turtle guys and the lava.”  
  
“That’s door two, dickwad.”  
  
“It is not! Now push A, let’s go.”  
  
“Hell no. I’m not takin’ a trip back just so you can get more lives.”  
  
“You don’t _have_ to, I know what I’m doing!”  
  
And because Sam looks like he might try to kill Dean if Dean doesn’t let him have his way (not that Dean actually thinks he will, but there’s a distinct possibility he’ll be tackled, which would…be really bad, right now), he grumbles under his breath and pushes A.  
  
It takes a certain amount of skill to beat Bowser, and an even greater amount when one person’s making Luigi (Sam always demands to be Luigi. It’s like he’s got a crush on the guy, or something) run and the other’s making him jump. But they manage, and when they beat Bowser Sam whoops with joy and smacks Dean’s shoulder. “We did it!”  
  
“Hell yeah, we did!” Luigi’s bowing to the Princess now. Dean smirks. “So, Sam, who’d you rather be—Mario or Toadstool?”  
  
“What the hell kinda question is that?” Sam’s nose is wrinkled again. “You’re weird.”  
  
“Well?”  
  
“Mario, duh, he’s a guy. But you got it wrong. I’m Luigi, you’re Mario.”  
  
Dean blinks. “And you came to that conclusion…how, exactly?”   
  
“Well, ‘cause Mario’s older and shorter. And, stuff.”  
  
Dean keeps staring. He’d like to start laughing, but the blush that’s steadily rising in Sam’s cheeks is just too good to ruin. “You,” he says, savoring the way Sam’s ears are reddening, “are a freak.”  
  
“Whatever.” The controller connects with Dean’s knee. “Get me some soup?”  
  
And something in Sam’s expression keeps Dean from teasing him in the slightest.  
  
||  
  
They build a fire that night, because it’s freezing cold out and gas costs, and Sam looks really fantastic by firelight.  
  
Dean doesn’t exactly share that last reason with anyone.  
  
“Mmmm,” Sam says, leaning back into the couch. He looks just about as comfortable as it’s possible for a person to be, even with his wrapped wrist on his lap. Dean feels himself smiling as he watches.  
  
“Having fun?”  
  
“’ve been cold all day.” Sam’s head lolls onto his shoulder—and just like that he breaks the illusion by grimacing. “Ow.”  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
He sits up, shrugging restlessly. “Growing pains, I guess,” he says. “My neck hurts.”  
  
Dean snorts. “That’s not growing pains, dumbass, that’s what happens when you sit in front of the TV all day.” Ignoring the voice in the back of his head that’s telling him just how craptastic an idea this is, he gets up on his knees. “Turn.”  
  
Sam blinks up at him, eyes wide. “What?”  
  
“Turn,” Dean says impatiently. “C’mon, Sammy, we don’t have all night.”  
  
Sam’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. Slowly—way too slowly for his wrist to be an excuse—he turns around and presents his back to Dean. His shoulders are hunched, the muscles tight.  
  
Well, this is gonna be a bitch. Dean scoots forward, gets up on his knees, since the little bastard’s so stupidly tall. He puts his hand on either side of Sam’s neck, half-glad and half-annoyed at the t-shirt under his fingers, and pushes his thumbs in.  
  
For a second he thinks he’s done it wrong, because Sam stiffens and lets out a weird half-moan, and it’s not like Dean gives very many neck rubs. Or, actually, any.  
  
But then Sam sort of slumps back against him, too-soft hair falling against Dean’s fingers, mouth open, and Dean thinks he feels something break inside. Like maybe his brain, or his dick, which is annoyingly close to being pressed against Sam’s spine.  
  
“Don’t stop,” Sam whispers, so Dean doesn’t.  
  
Sam’s muscles feel like knots under his fingers, so Dean moves his hands in slow, hard circles, trying and failing to ignore the way Sam writhes, the sweat beading at his neck. The firelight dances off of the tiny droplets, sends constantly shifting shadows over Sam’s skin..  
  
Dean grits his teeth and thinks of England. Or Dad, actually, who’s a hell of a lot more terrifying than a country full of people who talk like pussies. It’s working, too, until Sam squirms and arches his back—and his ass comes right up against Dean’s dick.  
  
Then Sam stiffens and sits up and there’s a few seconds when the world is so still Dean almost thinks he’s gonna faint, or something.  
  
“Dean?” Sam says finally, too quiet to even be a whisper.  
  
And he sounds like a _kid._ It’s so fucking easy to forget that Sam’s still a freshman in high school.. Sam’s experienced more than people five times his age and when he loads and shoots a gun, when he pulls Dean down and saves his life, it never occurs to Dean that he’s just a fifteen-year-old, barely old enough to not be called a boy.  
  
But he’s not stupid, and he knows that neither of them is going to back down now. “Shh,” he says, stroking a hand down Sam’s back. “It’s alright, Sammy. I’ve got you.”  
  
For a second Sam just sits there, cradled by Dean, who can almost see the little hamsters running on their wheels in Sam’s head. Then he bends back, boneless confidence in every motion, and pulls Dean’s mouth down to his.  
  
Objectively, as first kisses go, it’s neither the best nor the worst Dean’s ever had. Subjectively, it’s Sam, and he has to fight to keep from throwing the huge dork on the floor, ripping all his clothes off, and then later hunting down whoever the fuck taught him to kiss this well and kicking the little bitch’s (gender notwithstanding) ass.  
  
In other words, it’s pretty much the most fantastic kiss Dean’s ever had, and he moans when Sam pulls away.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
Not childlike now, but with the same strength Dean sees when Sam’s hunting down a monster or studying for an exam. All that stubbornness and determination, and it’s focused on Dean. He swallows hard, and Sam smiles.  
  
“Thought I was dreaming for a second there,” he says. “But…”  
  
And then Sam’s turning around and kissing him again, pushing him against the couch until he can wiggle over and straddle Dean’s lap. He can feel the heat coming from both of them in waves, and he grits his teeth when Sam grinds their cocks together and moans, loud and long.  
  
“God,” Sam says. “Dean. Please, God, _please_ say something. Anything. Oh, God,” and he drops his forehead against Dean’s.  
  
“Well,” Dean manages to say, “I’m not God. But you can call me that if you want.”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes pissily. Dean would tease him more, except—hand. Skimming down his back, fingers hooking onto his belt loops, and now Sam’s kissing his neck and making these funny little noises, low and satisfied in the back of his throat.  
  
This shouldn’t be happening, it’s impossible that it _is_ happening, and if it stops Dean’s going to have to kill something.  
  
Sam’s lips are dry and warm—chapped, of course, but then so are Dean’s. It’s one of those things, like the way he’s holding his bad wrist stiffly away from Dean’s body, that would probably be fucking hilarious if their cocks weren’t grinding together through their jeans.  
  
Sometime soon he’s going to start stripping Sam’s clothes off, but right now he just holds Sam a little bit closer, kisses him a little bit harder. The hard sharp sensation of _new_ is shooting through him, but instead of making him stiffen he feels himself slumping back into the couch, letting Sam press him down, closer and closer until all he can see is flickering shadows and the weirdly gleaming shadows of Sam’s eyes.  
  
It’s like someone’s stuck a plunger into him: a slow, inexorable pull that only gets stronger when Sam moans, sliding a hand up his belly.  
  
Not that he wants it to _stop_ , or anything.  
  
This time when they pull apart they’re both breathing hard, like they’ve run a race—or for them, a five-mile marathon on half an hour of sleep.   
  
Sam’s shaking his head, a smile that means he’s barely holding in a laugh tugging at his lips. Dean narrows his eyes. “What’s so funny?”  
  
“I never thought ‘bout this,” Sam says quietly, moving his hips in small slow circles. “I. Other stuff, I mean, when I was jerking off—“  
  
And this is a game Dean knows how to play. “Like what, Sammy?” he asks, smirking when Sam blushes. “Sucking my cock? Fucking me?” A tug is all it takes and Sam loses his balance, so that instead of pressing down on Dean, Dean’s holding him tight. “Me fucking you?” he whispers, just loud enough to be heard over the crackling fire.  
  
“All of it,” Sam says, voice rough. Dean’s stomach does a weird flip-flop thing; that’s the last time he ever eats freaking McDonald’s for breakfast. “All of it, and I didn’t know—Dean. If I’d thought I could’ve had this…”  
  
There’s something written all over Sam’s face, something that reminds him of the look civilians get right before the monster kills ‘em. It’s not exactly hope, but it’s just as stupid and useless.  
  
Dean jumps in front of civilians all the time; it’s his job. But he jumps in front of Sammy because, hell. That’s his life on the line, in more ways than one.  
  
So he rolls them over, pressing Sam into the sagging cushions. Sam’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t miss a beat—long, slim fingers slide Dean’s shirt off and undo his pants, shoving them down until they’re low enough that Dean can kick them off. Dean smirks and rubs up against Sam, who shudders and glares.  
  
“You might wanna return the favor, you know,” he says.  
  
“Dude, patience is a virtue.” And Sam looks good, lying here with his clothes stretched over him. Dean’s been waiting for what feels like forever; a few more minutes won’t kill him.  
  
He leans down and slides the shirt over Sam’s chest, the fabric soft from too many washings. Sam blinks, his face reddening.  
  
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Dean says in a near-whisper. “Gettin’ goosebumps, Sammy?”  
  
“No,” Sam says defiantly.  
  
“You lie like a dog,” Dean says, grinning.   
  
“Yeah, well, you’re a jerk,” Sam says, and starts twisting. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, managing to keep from rolling them back in his head only because white eyes are kind of gross and Sam’s a total wuss.  
  
“Fuck,” he hears himself say. “Damn it, Sam, you keep that up and I’ll—“  
  
“Hurry up, then,” Sam says. There’s a bratty little gleam in his eye that reminds Dean almost too much of the many other times he’s gotten Dean to do whatever he wants.  
  
If he wasn’t harder than he’s ever been in his life, it might worry him a little. As it is he just pulls Sam a little closer and unbuttons his jeans, groaning when Sam tilts his hips encouragingly.  
  
“Doubt you wanna know—know. How long I’ve wanted this,” Dean says.  
  
“Not any longer than me,” Sam says, and wraps his fingers around Dean’s dick.  
  
His shirt is still on, pushed up just past his nipples, and when Dean gasps and thrusts he’s left looking at the bare expanse of Sam’s chest, his stomach, way too developed for any kid his age—except, Dean reminds himself when Sam thrusts into him, the friction making them both hiss, that he’s not a kid. Not at all.  
  
He wants to do this slower, better, but instead he finds himself thrusting back against Sam, arching his back and gritting his teeth as their dicks rub against each other, Sam’s fingers all tangled up with them both, pumping and cupping and exploring.  
  
“Too good at this,” Dean says, leaning over and kissing Sam’s jaw, his mouth. “Who?”  
  
Sam smirks. It’s not Dean’s smirk; it’s different, nuanced, and Dean thinks that’s an answer in and of itself.  
  
He’ll wait till later to hunt down the prick who taught Sam all this. Later he’ll bash the guy’s head in, and maybe thank him a little.  
  
Sam catches Dean’s earlobe in his teeth, gently, and squeezes Dean’s cock, a scar on his palm rubbing against the sensitive skin.  
  
_Fuck._ Okay, maybe a lot.  
  
“Tomorrow,” Sam says quietly, “Dad’ll be home.”  
  
Dean groans.  
  
“You’re gonna take me to a motel,” Sam says. “We’ll tell Dad we’re doing my school stuff or something. You’ll drive me to the motel, and I’ll blow you in the parking lot. And then we’ll go in, and you’ll fuck me blind.” He smiles, one of the huge brilliant grins that always reminds Dean of stupid crap like the sun coming up and God-given epiphanies.  
  
“And then I’ll _die,_ ” he says, and Sam laughs.  
  
Laughs. They’re naked—well, almost, and Sam’s wrist is all wrapped up and Dean’s _cock_ is thrusting against Sam’s, both of them leaking precome, and Sam, _his_ Sam, is laughing his ass off.  
  
It’s good. Too good, and Dean comes, smiling and gritting his teeth.  
  
He opens his eyes to see Sam staring up at him, eyes wide, mouth half crooked in a self-satisfied smile.  
  
“You little—“ Dean says, and then he’s sliding down, knocking his knees on the sagging arm of the couch. It hurts like hell but Sam’s dick is against his cheek and then in his mouth, and Sam lets out weird little mewling noises that feel like punches to the gut.  
  
Dean smiles and goes down further, rubbing a thumb on the inside of Sam’s thigh. Sam’s good hand runs over his head, fingers desperate but weirdly timid, and Dean pulls back long enough to say, “Go for it, man.”  
  
And than Sam’s hand—fucking _huge_ , overgrown just like the rest of him—cups the back of his head, spreading out until it feels like he’s cradles Dean’s entire head. Gentle fingers brush the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck, and then Sam’s pushing his head down.  
  
The message is pretty clear; Dean opens his mouth again and sucks Sam down, working his throat and cupping Sam’s balls with his free hand. Sam doesn’t say anything, just breathes—gulps of air roughly inhaled, chest stuttering, body shaking.  
  
C’mon, dumbass, he thinks, and pins Sam’s hips to the couch, working his throat muscles around Sam’s dick.  
  
When a person gets tackled by a werewolf or a ghost goes through them and all the breathe goes out of his body, he usually makes a sort of half-strangled screaming noise. Dean’s heard it plenty of times—it usually comes with the look of complete and total terror.  
  
Watching Sam come is kind of like watching that, except his strangled noise sounds a lot like Dean’s name, and instead of panic Dean sees a look of bliss that’s usually restricted to when Sam gets ahold of Pixie Sticks.  
  
They’re both sticky with sweat and come, but right now the idea of standing up and taking this into the bedroom ranks right up there with hopping off a cliff and trying to fly. Instead, Dean hitches himself up and drags himself forwards until he can collapse on top of Sam, his head on Sam’s shoulder, both of them gasping for air.  
  
When they’re both finally calmed down, when the crackling fire is louder than the slow breaths they both take simultaneously, Sam says, “That was kind of cool.”  
  
“Kind of?” Dean snorts. “Time of your life, man, and you know it.”  
  
He doesn’t have to be looking at Sam to know he’s smiling. “Well, yeah. That too.”  
  
Dean catches Sam’s good wrist and strokes the baby-soft inside skin, lifting his head just enough so that he can look Sam in the eye. “It’ll be even better next time,” he says. It’s not so much a promise as a question.  
  
Sam’s arms lock around him and pull him down again, reaching up with his whole body until Dean feels like he’s crazy-glued to Sam’s skin.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says, sounding for all the world like he’s won the lottery. “Yeah, it will.”  
  
||


End file.
